


so willing to care for you

by serinesaccade



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cats, Enjolras Is Bad At Feelings, Fluff, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, New Year's Eve, New Year's Resolutions, Pining Enjolras
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-12 13:01:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28760718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serinesaccade/pseuds/serinesaccade
Summary: In typical fashion, Grantaire had exactly three New Years Resolutions for the last year, and by December 26th he’d accomplished about half of the first.1. Stop drinking excessively. 2. Get a pet. 3. Confess undying love to Enjolras.But it's not the end of the year yet.Alternately: Grantaire's not on nearly enough drugs to actually think his newly adopted cat is Enjolras, who has conveniently disappeared. But he's not gonna totally eliminate the possibility.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 44
Kudos: 185





	so willing to care for you

**Author's Note:**

> shameless fluff, because new year same me  
> this specifically does NOT occur in 2020/2021  
> Enjolras is NOT actually a cat do not be disappointed  
> YES the title is from "what's new pussycat"

In typical fashion, Grantaire had exactly three New Years Resolutions for the last year, and he’d accomplished about half of the first.

  1. Stop drinking excessively
  2. Get a pet
  3. Confess undying love to Enjolras



The universe loves fucking with Grantaire, so that is possibly why he opens his door on December 26th to see a fluffy tail poking up from behind the dead freesia pot he’d forgotten to rescue from the winter cold.

“Um,” he says. There is a mew. Well, he’s always been a procrastinator. Doesn’t mean he can’t get things accomplished occasionally. He crouches, peers behind the pot, and greets: “hi, kitty.”

The fluffy tail just leads down to a fluffier body, which is speckled with barely-visible snow in a mass of blonde fur. Kitty’s eyes are big, and blue. Grantaire is in love.

Kitty hisses at him.

“Shh, shh, I know I startled you,” Grantaire tries to soothe. “C’mere, baby.”

This is not convincing to Kitty. He tries holding out his hand for a sniff. Sitting on the freezing pavement for ten minutes. Unfortunately, a stray cat has more patience and inner peace than Grantaire. Well, he’ll play dirty. He carefully gets up, quietly opens the door, and then sprints to his fridge to pull out leftover chicken from making dinner yesterday.

Bingo. Kitty emerges to eat the chicken, and then stares disdainfully at Grantaire from a distance. Well, Grantaire can be annoyingly persistent. He lays out more tiny chicken pieces, through his open door. When this trail is followed, fluffy tail twitching in the air as Kitty goes along, he carefully closes the door.

Kitty whips around, and yowls.

“Hey,” says Grantaire softly. The yowling continues. “Hey, hey, isn’t it warmer in here? Don’t be like that.”

After some extended yowling, a vantage point is taken on one of Grantaire’s desk shelves by the window, where he is suspiciously observed from above.

“I know you want to be free,” Grantaire informs him. “Let’s see if you have someone missing you.”

He snaps a quick picture and mocks up a nice Lost Kitty poster. A cat like this is surely someone’s prize. In the meantime—in the meantime, Grantaire wheedles toys and treats and even a litter box out of the (crazy) sweet older woman who lives next door with her thirty cats.

Though it’s definitely a bad idea, he takes to calling him Helios. _Don’t get attached_ , he reminds himself, _don’t—_

By the third night, nobody’s called, and Helios comes to sniff at his shirt, to curl up where he just brushes up against Grantaire’s knee.

A scritch is accepted. A scritch behind the ear, and then the chin, and finally Helios sprawls out, little tail flicking.

“See,” says Grantaire, braving a careful transfer of Helios from the couch to his lap with little taps of his fingers on his thigh, “I’m not so bad, hmm?” On his lap, the fluffball is quiet.

Grantaire is probably attached.

* * *

“You got a _cat_?” Joly demands. “This means you’re hosting the New Years Party, you know that, don’t you? We have to meet them!”

“Ugh,” says Grantaire, who is perfectly happy to host the New Years Party and Joly knows it. “Also, I’m just waiting for their real owner to show up.”

“How long’s it been?”

“Four days,” Grantaire admits, which on second thought, yeah. He probably has a cat now. Which is good, because Grantaire’s supposed to be proving to himself he can take care of something living, even if that thing isn’t himself. It’s easier, when it’s Helios. “Now I have to go figure out what to feed you people. The worst. What do you want?”

Joly spews off ten reasonable options and twelve that are a pipe dream, before concluding with a chirped: “love you!” So Grantaire echoes the sentiment quietly and hangs up.

“Helios,” he sighs, “please don’t be gone by New Years.” Big blue eyes blink up at him, resolute, but no promises are made.

He texts Joly a picture of Helios systematically destroying one of his old string-based school projects ( _a critical commentary on modernism_ ) and receives in reply a sentence that will ruin the next week of his life.

_Haha looks like the cat version of Enjolras! Though the cat might know more about art_

“You don’t,” he assures Helios, “look like Enjolras.” Grantaire can have a portrait or a sketch or a—a _pet_ that doesn’t look like Enjolras. “You’re nothing like him,” he repeats to himself, when Helios makes a passionate, yowled speech about the unfairness of hunger as Grantaire eats his dinner and Helios gets dry food, protests the barriers of classism when he is shut outside the bathroom door. “Nope, nope—“

The only time he believes it, really, is when he wakes in the night. There’s a weight on his chest that isn’t anxiety. For once. Instead, it is purring softly, and kneads with tiny paws exactly four times.

“Hi baby,” he whispers. There is only mild offense taken to this, with Helios tucking his face beneath Grantaire’s chin. He’s almost content enough, in this dark quiet space, to resist the urge to check his phone.

Three messages from Bahorel, who texts primarily after midnight. One nervous thought from Joly, who tends to wake and shoot off a message that fits the template: “is it normal if I _____? Asking for your non-medical opinion”.

There are none from Enjolras, which is to be expected. Enjolras and he do not text regularly. Strictly in awkward bursts that leave Grantaire aching for a hit when they’re over. This time, there’s a reason their final exchange comes from Grantaire and just says _yeah, I’ll be at the holiday party around 7 with the requested nondenominational sprinkles, barring a Bossuet incident._

Helios is not Enjolras, because when Grantaire takes a paw in his palm and kisses it, Helios just squeezes his eyes shut and settles more heavily on his chest. If Helios were Enjolras, he would do exactly the opposite—stare, wide-eyed, and leave posthaste.

 _sorry_ , Grantaire types into his message bar, _I was super drunk haha dw I will not pull that again_

That sounds pathetic and desperate. Perfect: it’s believable coming from Grantaire.

He deletes that message, and then three more along the same lines. Once he and Ep kissed while drunk, full makeout, and the next morning he’d just texted her “so that was weird, whoops” and she’d texted back “motherfucker I told you Gav had already spiked that lemonade before you did it a second time.” They got frozen yogurt and laughed their asses off the next afternoon and maybe become even better friends. Why couldn’t Enjolras be like that? Even Grantaire can’t transmit through mere skin contact _I love you I LOVE YOU please just walk into the same room. please let your eyes pass over me as part of the scenery if that’s all I can keep, you have a home in my chest you’ve never visited—_

Instead of continuing that thought, he scrolls through his camera roll. Sends:

 _New roommate._ Helios, glowering while chewing kibble.

There is no reply.

* * *

After a day, the text hanging there gets a _little_ concerning. Enjolras treats text messages and email the same, addressing them with a timeliness and ferocity that leaves other Type A personalities clutching their trophies. Luckily, there’s always Courfeyrac.

Instagram detective work leads to nothing. Not even accidental photobombs. Snapchat similarly yields nothing. Maybe Enjolras is on vacation.

Enjolras doesn’t take vacation. Maybe—maybe Enjolras hurled his phone at a conservative politician because it was the only object on hand. And then—was arrested. _Maybe—_

_Hey Green Beanie I can see u replaying all my snaps what can I, Courfeyrac, do for u_

Damn Courfeyrac and his excellent social media skills.

_Gotta have that Courfeyrac Content ©_

_You’re adorable but flattery don’t recharge my phone battery_

_Fess up before I have to plug it in and do something else for a while_

_Nice rhyme Jehan but questionable imagery_

_No misdirection in the Courfeyrac Court!_

After a long moment, Grantaire gives in.

_Did ur bff finally succeed in ascending the mortal plane_

_He’s not replying to my text lol_

After ten minutes of no reply, Grantaire has to entertain the theory that Enjolras did, and took Courfeyrac with him. Then a chimed,

_Haven’t seen him, sorry, Green Beanie!_

_Sometimes he pulls a disappearing act u know?_

_Usually means something Big’s in the works_

Grantaire’s pretty sure that if Courfeyrac, Combeferre, and Enjolras didn’t speak for more than a day Courf would go into social withdrawal, Combeferre would start philosophizing on walls in black marker, and Enjolras would set a corrupt politician on fire. As he’s seen nothing on the news, Grantaire assumes this is a blatant lie.

_is he literally a superhero_

_his secret identity does not keep him on the DL_

_admittedly, hell, that’s a good plan_

_sorry no clue! Haven’t seen him since Christmas! Ttyl_

Well. That’s not suspicious at all.

“At least when Enjolras exits my life,” he says to Helios, who is currently playing with a red ribbon, “I get you.” Cats over boys. New life motto.

Since Christmas, huh.

Helios breaks three beer bottles and a handle of vodka that were left out on the table. Helios also gets into the resulting mess and needs a bath, and then Grantaire’s wet, so look, he might as well take a shower.

When he gets out, Helios is aggressively perched atop Grantaire’s bed book pile.

“Temperance, hygiene, and reading,” he says. “You really are Enjolras, aren’t—“ _since Christmas_ “—you.”

Oh _god_.

Grantaire hasn’t drunk a drop since yesterday, and he still crouches down so he’s eye level with Helios and whispers, feeling like an idiot, “ _Enjolras_?”

There is a meow.

 _Oh god,_ Grantaire panics, oh _god_.

* * *

Even Grantaire hasn’t doused his neurons in enough alcohol or recreational drugs to seriously believe Enjolras has transformed into a cat. Except—crazier things have… not… happened.

(Possibly, it is easier to assume that Enjolras was transformed into a cat by an evil capitalistic wizard than to sort through the idea that he freaked Enjolras out with the hand kissing. That he’ll never respond to Grantaire again.)

Grantaire’s in so much trouble.

He doesn’t start calling Helios _Enjolras_ or anything. But when Helios stares with huge, dark eyes at Grantaire’s sandwich he immediately obliges and hands over some (safe) human food. He tidies his mess of an apartment. He tries to lock Helios out of the bedroom and bathroom when he sleeps or does more… private activities.

He _definitely_ stops confessing, late at night into Helios' fur, all of his feelings.

Comfortingly, Helios acts like a cat in these situations, and not like an idealistic social justice advocate. There is so much yowling one evening that he lets Helios into his bedroom. And if he thinks he hears Enjolras’ voice sometimes during the day, or dreams of him in bed with Grantaire? Those—those are pretty normal.

Grantaire was dreaming like that long before Helios came into his life.

* * *

Helios makes his bid for justice and freedom at the perfect moment. That moment is New Year's eve, 4pm, when Grantaire is attempting to cook Joly’s candied yams and slice veggie chips on a mandolin, and thoughtlessly opens the door to go get mail in the middle.

“ _Because a cat’s the only thing, that knooows how to swiing—_ HELIOS NOoooo—“

Helios goes with no remorse or hesitation.

“Baby!” Grantaire complains, “fuck.” He almost mindlessly runs after, but when weighing his speed against his ability to outsmart his cat, there’s a clear answer. Cat brains are wired for pouncing and running. Grantaire brains are wired to force attention. Snagging Helios’ favorite toy, and sucking air and cursing as he trips and impales himself on three others, he makes it out the door seconds later. Record time.

Grantaire’s neighbors make weird noises sometimes, so he is allowed to scramble through the halls shaking the stupid toy and making cooing noises. He’ll annoy Helios into coming back if needed.

There, a flash of yellow fur.

“Where are you?” He calls. “Baby?” He can’t _lose his cat_. Fuck that he’s had him for a few days. This is all Grantaire’s got for this year, right now, that little ball of fluff that kneads him all night and steps directly on his abused liver to remind him of his past sins. It’s easier to wake up in the morning. To go to sleep at night.

“Grantaire?” Comes a voice from round the next bend. Wait, what? This is followed by a long pause. “Is that you? I’m here.”

As much as Grantaire sees Enjolras’ golden presence everywhere, and hears that passionate, soft speech, it’s not usually this clear. His own ridiculous superstitions get the best of him, and he rounds the corner with a:

“Enjolras, seriously, you are a terrible cat—“

Enjolras is standing there.

He’s fully clothed. That’s better than the one embarrassing daydream Grantaire had of this transformation situation.

In fact, none of Grantaire’s daydreams are lining up, because Enjolras is there—and so is Helios.

Snarfing grass as fast as kitten-ly possible. Crouched off to the side, and defiantly flicking that fuzzy tail. He doesn’t even deign to look Grantaire’s way, which is great, because Grantaire’s not sure he could handle both sets of eyes.

“Heeeeeey,” comes out breathless and wavering. Good impression. As usual, the sight of Enjolras sears to ash every meager IQ point Grantaire has ever possessed. “So—you’re not a cat anymore.”

“No.” Enjolras frowns.

Grantaire tries to smile at him, but he’s now being besieged by anxious thoughts cloaking themselves in Enjolras’ voice. _Grantaire, I came here to express my disgust over your behavior at the Christmas party. I didn’t get your text because I’ve rightfully blocked you—_

The smile is probably not successful. Shortly after, this is confirmed.

“Are you high?” Enjolras blurts, and runs a frazzled hand through his curls even as he narrows his eyes. None of this is fair. “Is that a bong—“

“It’s a cat toy!” Grantaire protests, flushing. “It’s a cat toy, for my cat, and jesus Enjolras, I don’t have THC choice enough to induce hallucinations.”

Enjolras doesn’t say anything. This may be good; he’s got a Grantaire-I’m-judging-a-lot-of-things-but- _particularly_ -you face on.

“…you have a cat?”

“Excellent inference,” says Grantaire. He points, and Enjolras follows his finger with furrowed brow and curious eyes to—Helios, who’s elected to stop rapidly consuming grass and is now rolling. “I—I texted you.”

There is a color on Enjolras’ face that Grantaire would describe as ‘light, rosy red.’ Pink wouldn’t make any sense.

“I lost my phone.”

“Oh.” Grantaire adjusts the cat toy to his right hand. “Cool, I kind of thought you were—“ he pointedly bites his tongue. Sober Grantaire is the worst; he lets his guard down.

“What,” Enjolras says. For once, there isn’t a slew of intent behind it. He wants to know.

New year, new Grantaire. Even if Enjolras sprints screaming from the building, Grantaire gets to carry Helios inside, shut the door, and cry into soft fur for a few days.

“Avoiding me?”

The palette of colors making up his face continues to inch towards _pink_. “I was.”

“Yowch,” Grantaire says, which hopefully covers up the sound of his heart cracking in two. Then he quickly walks, leans over, and plucks up his cat. “Okay, I’m going inside, see you next year—“

“Wait!” says Enjolras, and steps forward. In his arms, Helios makes a valiant effort to bat at the cat toy in midair. The result? The delicate balance is completely disrupted, and before Grantaire knows it, he’s losing his jacket, the cat toy, but clutching at a wriggling Helios— Enjolras catches things. Of course he does. Enjolras is perfect. “Sorry, I’ve got it. Should we—should we go inside?”

Grantaire stares at him. “I live in there.”

“I know.”

“I live in there,” Grantaire reminds him again. “Me, the creepy guy you’re avoiding because you hate him.”

The cat toy is almost dropped again. “That’s not why I was avoiding you.”

Grantaire gets a claw dangerously close to his nipple. “Ack, just—fine. Come in.”

Enjolras perches on his ratty armchair with all his firm, glorious presence. Instead of setting Helios loose on his cat tree, he leans against the wall and gathers him up like a baby in his arms. A gigantic furry blockade.

And for a second there, he’d thought they were the same. _Get a grip, Grantaire_.

“Are you angling for an apology?” Grantaire stares down, at speckled pink kitty toes. “I don’t think it was that egregious.” There is not a reply. Or—not a verbal reply. Because he is a crazy person, Enjolras whips out a folder from nowhere. “Are you serving me _a restraining order_ because I kissed your hand—“

“Don’t be ridiculous right now,” Enjolras states. “No, it’s a strategy.”

“For _what_?”

“For us.” The folder is red. Grantaire stares at it. “To be together. If you’re in agreement.”

Grantaire shifts Helios up onto his shoulder. “I’m—I’m lost, man. Like a strategy for us to be together at meetings without fighting?”

Enjolras puts the folder in his lap and his face in his hands. “Krfsddrrdnttngs.” A deep breath. “I can't believe I-- I spent so much time thinking this over, doing introspection. Trying to--” he cuts himself off. "I'm sorry. I don't intend to put this on you. Courfeyrac said I might be reading too deep into things."

It is not possible to read too deeply into Grantaire’s feelings. It’s a bottomless pit. A chasm. No, the Marianas trench, all dark and quiet and infinite pressure.

“I mean,” Grantaire says, head spinning. “Give me the Sparknotes of what you think you’re reading.”

 _Just say it_ , that urge. _Just say you know I’m head over heels and tell me how far away I need to stay, for how long._

“I was hoping,” Enjolras says, with a slowness that screams carefully chosen diction, “the kiss on the hand was an indication of romantic interest.”

“You were _hoping_?”

Suddenly, he can’t stay leaning against the wall. As a distraction, he sets a disgruntled Helios into Enjolras’ lap, who stares down with growing alarm. “R—“

In exchange he’ll take that folder, thank you very much. He backs away and cracks it open. He half expects it to be empty, or maybe for a picture of Rick Astley to fall out, except— no. No, there’s a fucking flowchart in there. There are _action items_.

“Ohhhhhh my god,” Grantaire reels. Were it not for a lapful of fur, he suspects Enjolras would be pacing over and ripping the folder from his hands. “You’re wild. You’re—“ breaking down into half-hysterical tears isn’t an appropriate reaction to this, but making a flowchart and a list of ten action items, the first of which is _Enjolras will practice more tender and empathetic honesty_ in his crisp handwriting… that’s not a normal reaction either.

Two pairs of blue eyes stare at him with growing concern.

“I didn’t mean to alarm you,” Enjolras says, sounding oddly small. “It’s—it’s just a proposal.” The blue eyes widen. “Not that kind of proposal! I—“

“C’mere,” Grantaire huffs, watery, and frees Enjolras from his adorable prison by picking up a catnip mouse and tossing it across the room. Helios eagerly follows; that makes it easy for Grantaire to replace him, shuffling forwards until Enjolras’ knees open enough for him to tuck between and lean forward.

“I’m sure once I read it through I’ll have some comments,” Grantaire says, “but my first proposed action item right behind _tender honesty_ is kissing.” Beneath his newly settled hands, Enjolras’ shoulders loosen.

“Mm,” says Enjolras. “We’ll find a solution that works for both of us.”

Then there is kissing. Lots and lots of kissing, and at some point he tries to read the damn flow chart but that just results in more kissing, so—

“Hey,” says Enjolras, breathy. His lips are undeniably pink. “Earlier, did you—why did you imply I was a cat?”

“Umm,” Grantaire stalls. “Yeah, this’ll be easier to explain with a visual aid.”

* * *

At the New Years Party, approximately an hour and two niche Powerpoint presentations are devoted to “Grantaire’s One Fluffy Accomplishment of Last Year” and “My New Boyfriend and Professor McGonagall: More Similar Than You Might Think?”

Then there is a hastily drafted presentation from Courfeyrac of: “Was My Best Friend Kidnapped Or Does It Just Take That Long to Digest Feelings?” calling in expert witness of reliable testimony, Combeferre.

“When Will We Finally Get Out The Champagne,” is Bahorel’s brief presentation, and the last.

“Cool if I kiss you on the lips this time?” Grantaire asks, and the answer is a firm, warm _yes_.

Grantaire doesn't accomplish his third New Year's Resolution until right after the stroke of midnight. Enjolras probably doesn't even hear the full of it, beneath a din of cheers and clapping and-- yeah, Jehan brought a rain stick. No, he seriously doubts Enjolras hears much of the embarrassing part, just _you know that I--_ screaming celebration, _\--you know, don't you?_ Enjolras looks at him with a bursting, raw ferocity and kisses him again, so-- he heard _something_. And that'll be good enough, for now. A new resolution, for this year.

What can he say? He's always been a procrastinator. At least this time, he's getting it done. Two and a half out of three isn't shabby. Considering the eleventh hour accomplishments, Grantaire's last year is looking pretty good.

But the new year's looking even better.

* * *

A month later, Grantaire takes down the “found cat” posters and takes Helios in for his second veterinary checkup.

“Blondie,” he says upon arrival home, kissing between flicking ears to the sound of a mewled complaint, “I’m keeping you.”

“Good,” says Enjolras wryly, unwrapping his scarf and moving to close the door, because of course he came along. They do most things together now. “I was getting concerned about whether you liked me.”

“Tell it to the flowchart, babe,” Grantaire tells him, and goes in for a welcome-home-everyone celebratory kiss. Enjolras— _yelps_ , and thumps back against the door. “Oh, snap, is this a serious talk? Sorry, I suck at reading when it’s serious talk time, if you’re actually concerned let me know what I can—“

“No! There’s a cat,” Enjolras interrupts.

“Yeah?” Grantaire blinks. “Our… cat?”

“No, there’s _another_ cat.” He breathes out. “It just ran in.”

That explains why Helios has taken residence atop the television cabinet, and is screaming loudly.

“Where’d it _go_?”

Upon further inspection, and him and Enjolras’ frantic brainstorming, the answer is obvious: the kitchen.

All the meat and goodies are in the fridge. However, on the counter, New Cat’s licking frantically at the plate of buttered toast Grantaire left in his laden rush to make it out the door before Helios discovered how to unlock his carrier.

“Not the bread,” Grantaire protests weakly. At his words, the bedraggled thing rolls its face in butter, yowls, and proceeds to fall off the countertop. It includes a backflip, as an afterthought, but everyone knows it’s not on purpose. “Shit! Are you okay there, buddy?” There’s a lot of chittering in answer.

“It’s _you_ ,” Enjolras chuckles, with such fondness Grantaire can’t even properly form a fake wounded look. He’s grinning. He’s giddy.

“You think the pet store will have buy one get one deals?”

“It seems you have a large resident feral cat population here, so probably,” Enjolras mutters, but— he’s smiling too. “This one’s mine. Courfeyrac’s been _begging_ since he met Helios at the New Year’s party.” Grantaire has a brief vision of Courfeyrac releasing herds of cats outside his apartment in a masterful, devilish scheme, but he shakes it off. “Let’s go put the ‘found cat’ posters back up.”

“You love flyering, you dork,” Grantaire snorts, “I’ll get them and put Helios in the bedroom. Bond with Cat Mini-Me.”

Enjolras crouches. Cat Grantaire immediately trots over and sniffs his hand. That isn’t remotely fair, but Grantaire probably should’ve guessed. “He likes me,” Enjolras reports, with soft awe.

“Yeah,” says Grantaire, heart squeezing in his chest, sparing a glance to Helios, who has settled curiously and is watching with wide eyes. He’ll get the posters in a minute. He will. “He really, really does.”

**Author's Note:**

> here's my [tumblr ](https://serinesaccade.tumblr.com/). the tumbs  
> thanks for reading and Dealing and any comment you care to leave *kiss kiss*  
> I AM working on my WIP and I'm sorry it's taking so long I am running into narrative Issues but here you go in the meantime  
> HAPPY BELATED NEW YEAR Y'ALL SORRY IT'S LATE  
> *writes NYE fic two weeks into january* DON'T LOOK AT ME


End file.
